


Held

by thecookiemomma



Category: NCIS
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another songfic.  This one's based on Natalie Grant's  "Held".   Seen <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mkg4IH1Zp64">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Held

It was another fucking bomb. It always was, it seemed. His world would explode into pieces at the sound these days. His hands shook, and his eyes would close. He kept himself together by a thread, but the thread was unraveling quickly -- it had gone from six strings to three to two to ... if he had to consider it, Jethro Gibbs would classify the thread holding the broken pieces of his fucked-up life together as only having a single, fragile string.

He couldn't forget them. Ducky would repeatedly suggest, especially on important days and when he'd christen his boats, that he pack up the memories and let them age like fine wine. Gibbs would shrug it off, and keep on going, remembering a little girl and her gorgeous red-headed momma. He would give a small smile thinking about the arguments he'd had with Jack over naming Kelly. No one would've guessed this, but the military and police tradition came from his mother's side of the family. His dad's family had all been farmers, merchants, a priest or two. But Annette Kelly Gibbs had come from a long line of Irish policemen, soldiers, and yes. Priests. It had been part of the reason he'd chosen the name. Shannon, being mostly Irish herself, had loved the idea of naming her daughter after her mother-in-law's family, though she only knew old Father Adrian, Gibbs' old uncle. Father Adrian had baptized her and gone on about her name for quite a spell at the feast that followed. He remembered that day as one bright colored spot on a short tapestry of sunny days.

The other women he'd married had been replacements. Every one of them. And even some he hadn't gotten that far with. Jenny. Hollis. Others. It'd taken an offhandedly crude comment from a perp for him to recognize that for himself. If it hadn't been shortly after the first bomb, he may not have recognized it at all. He'd just stopped trying to find someone after that, because even as oblivious and intentionally obtuse as he was, he couldn't afford to try to see Shannon in anyone else. That was pretty damn fucked up.

So, here he was, taking a vacation, ending up in Stillwater of all places. He found himself visiting, not Jackson, but Father Adrian's old church. Father Adrian had -- "Gone on to Glory" -- or some such nonsense, but his church was still here, standing strong and welcoming. In the motes of sunlight lie a thousand different memories of better days. He sat in the pew just thinking. There wasn't anything going on, no service, no scurrying about, though there was the sound of an old, poorly tuned radio. A young lady was singing, and Gibbs strained to hear the sound.

**This is what it means to be held**   
**How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life**   
**And you survive**   
**This is what it is to be loved and to know**   
**That the promise was that when everything fell**   
**We'd be held**

**This hand is bitterness**   
**We want to taste it and**   
**Let the hatred numb our sorrows**   
**The wise hand opens slowly**   
**To lilies of the valley and tomorrow**

**This is what it means to be held**   
**How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life**   
**And you survive**   
**This is what it is to be loved and to know**   
**That the promise was that when everything fell**   
**We'd be held**

Gibbs closed his eyes. He didn't feel like he'd ever felt that. Or if he had, it was rare, and he'd pushed it away, like a hot potato. The song continued, but he tuned it out, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. The tears began to flow slowly, unchecked, honestly unnoticed. It was harder here where he couldn't ignore things. Couldn't push them to the back of his mind, or pretend that was another, different Gibbs, a totally separate entity. It had become real. He almost didn't notice the creak of the pew and the slight shift in the wood that meant another person had sat down beside him.

"You're a hard man to track down, Jet." Gibbs knew who it was; he had known since he felt the wood shift. The presence was familiar and comforting. "I resorted to having Abby and McTechnowiz do a track on your phone. McGoogle was a little bit reluctant, but I pulled the 'Senior Agent' card." There was a bit of wry amusement in his voice, as though he knew that the older man had probably completely forgotten about the ability to track him through his dammed cell. To be fair, he had. "I was surprised as all Hell as to where it led me, though. Never would've guessed you'd come back to Stillwater. But ...." He seemed to suddenly realize that his normal, inane prattle wasn't what was needed here. "Missed ya, Boss." Gibbs felt a long, wiry arm reach around his shoulders and begin to massage gently, attempting to work away the pain and stress he felt there.

"Tony." Gibbs straightened up, looking toward his lover. "Got to be too much. Another damn bomb, more dead kids – " He couldn't finish the words. He didn't have to, though.

"Mmmm." Tony's hands continued to move, but now, they gently directed him to raise up even further, turn in his arms, and rest his head on strong shoulders. "I know, Jet. I know." That was all he said, holding on tightly enough that Gibbs could feel his heartbeat. Gibbs expected more prattle, probably about the day, the trip over, or some movie Tony had seen in his absence. Something. However, it never came. Instead, there was a blissful, sweet silence, punctuated only by the sound of Tony's heart and their breathing, starting to synchronize, much as it would when they slept – tucked together like cordwood laid snugly in a row.

The tears still fell, and after a while, his breath began to hitch. He turned just a little more, reaching his own arms around his man, and held on, allowing himself to let go at the same time. Tony just continued to hold him, as his tears ran down his -- probably very expensive -- silk shirt. Somewhere behind all the tears, he felt vaguely apologetic as he mulled over that fact.

Finally, when his eyes and his throat felt raw like his roughest sandpaper, Tony pulled back, and turned him back forward, clutching at his upper arm in a gesture of supportive strength instead of the claiming move it had sometimes been. "Hey, Boss. You've got a hotel, yeah?" He could only nod at this point, and together they walked out to the cars.

***

They finally arrived inside the room, after having added Tony to the guest list, paying the extra for him, and getting all that settled. Gibbs thought he recognized the desk clerk as a son or grandson of someone he might've known... and wasn't that just a lark. Damndest thing about small towns, he knew. However, it was a part of who he was, and a large part of why he'd ended up here in the first place. In a fishbowl, you couldn't help but see your reflection. Or bump into someone who would make you see it.

Tony bustled around in a familiar manner, moving things here and there, insinuating himself into Gibbs' company again. Gibbs was too tired and wrung out to do much more than a silent acknowledgment and acquiescence of the fact. After he'd finished his moving and shifting, he grabbed Gibbs around the waist and guided him to the bed. “Alright, Boss. Let me help you get settled, okay?” There was a slight frown on his face, but Gibbs thought he knew that look. It was a worried frown, and he was warmed by the thought.

"Alright, DiNozzo, calm down." He tried to inject the steel in his voice that seemed a nearly permanent fixture. He failed utterly. With a tired sigh, he sat down on the big bed, stretching his feet out to let Tony take his boots off.

"Jethro." There was the steel. Though his voice faltered on his full name, instead of the silly nickname that had come from their first night together, Tony's voice brooked no argument. "Let me do this, please?" Gibbs wasn't sure what 'this' was, but it was Tony. Tony had his six, and the reverse was just as true. Always had been. Or at least ever since that life-changing night in Baltimore, lo, those many years ago. He gave a tired grunt, and just relaxed, keeping silent, only nodding his agreement.

Tony slid his boots off nearly effortlessly, and began slowly undressing him, gently massaging him everywhere he saw exposed skin. It wasn't an arousing touch. In fact, it was having a distinctly different – though equally pleasant – effect. It was calming him, running deeper than he knew. It was a deep, feeding touch. It filled his soul with something he wasn't sure he'd ever known.

Unable to keep completely silent, Tony began whistling softly. Gibbs listened to the tune, shocked. It was the song from the radio. He wasn't aware that Tony had heard it. Whether he had consciously decided to whistle this melody, or whether it had been a completely unconscious thing, Gibbs was touched. And when Tony snuggled down behind him, wrapping his arms around the older man, pressing his warm skin to Gibbs' own, the silver-haired agent couldn't get the words out of his head.

They were extremely apropos.

**This is what it means to be held**   
**How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life**   
**And you survive**   
**This is what it is to be loved and to know**   
**That the promise was that when everything fell**   
**We'd be held**

With that assurance, Leroy Jethro Gibbs fell deeply asleep for the first time in a very long time.

 

 


End file.
